


That Time of the Perigee

by doxian



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Feferi becomes Empress, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Body Horror, Egg Laying, Graphic Birth Scene, Masochism, Masturbation, Nausea, Other, Oviposition, Sexual Frustration, Sheathplay, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 12:58:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doxian/pseuds/doxian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know what this is. You had a feeling a few days in, honestly, but you hadn't wanted to seriously consider the possibility. </p><p>You boot up your husktop, look up "fertility cycles", skim through some of the symptoms. </p><p><i>God fucking damnit.</i> No denying it now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pairings aren't the focus of this fic. 
> 
> Taking some definite liberties with troll biology here.

Your name is Sollux Captor, and you have a migraine.

This is nothing new. You have migraines when the voices of the doomed scream with such intense ferocity that your thinkpan shakes and your ears are left ringing, in spite of the noise not actually existing in physical space. You get headaches that hit you like lightning when you overuse your psionics; that seem to recede only to flare back up in staccato-like aftershocks, just as you think it might be okay to breathe again. You get weak, crackly dehydration headaches - the kind that hang over you like a fog and are always your own fault for not taking care of yourself properly. You have headaches that feel like very long sponge-freezes and headaches that feel like jackhammers drilling into the bases of your horns. You should have gotten some kind of achievement for it by now because there isn't a single type of headache that exists that you haven't experienced at one point or another. 

Or so you thought. 

This one feels like burning, tiny claws all grabbing your eyeballs at once, underscored by a dull, throbbing ache permeating the rest of your pan. It's actually not that bad in comparison, only different, but the difference freaks you out a little because you can't be sure whether it's a beginning sign of a new and undiscovered treat your wonderful, mutant brain has in store for you. 

So far you've been able to pretty much ignore the pain, like you always do. Instead, you're devoting your attention to a complete hoofbeastshit fan-made Super Metroid spinoff, eyes fixed on the screen and feet propped up on the edge of your desk, which is littered with the comforting clutter of game grubs alongside the crispy, expired grubshells of various failed or abandoned programming projects. You're careful to avoid the honeycomb mainframe that's closest to you - you've stuck your foot into it on accident way too many times, and the feeling of honey between the toes is really fucking gross. 

You'd stumbled upon the game via clicking around the multitude of gaming blogs you follow, and the general consensus - when it actually showed up in a post at all - is that it's terrible. Game design at its gaperguzzling worst. And so, obviously, you had downloaded it, expecting a quick laugh. An hour of frustrated cursing and 8-bit death knells later, you've ripped its code wide open and are dicking around, trying to make it fucking _work_ , because apparently you hate yourself enough to waste your night on such a thankless, frustrating task as attempting to maneuver this handful of bucketscrapings into a working game.

The eyeball-burning pauses in favour of a piercing sensation that lances through you, almost making you wince. Defiantly, you float a Red Fairybull energy drink over from the six pack on the floor and crack it open, taking a huge gulp and slamming it back down on your desk just as enthusiastically. Sweet - perfect control over your psionics. You're _fine_.

\--

You are beginning to suspect that you are not, in fact, fine. 

You've begun to _bloat_ , which - unlike the migraines - you can't recall happening to you before. Being as skinny as you are, even the slightest weight gain looks and feels like a lot, so it would have been easy enough to notice. You're toweling off after a shower - your first proper one in a while, whoops - when you realize that you're packing a little more in the pudge department than usual. In the middle of rubbing your hair dry, you leave the towel on your head and over your horns like you're some kind of new, absurd coat rack - it's a look that simply screams "fashion craze in the making" according to Troll Vogue - and frown down at your belly. Carefully, you try to pinch the flesh between your fingers. You can't. It feels _taut_ , like a drum. 

You haven't strayed from your usual eating habits - shitty instant noodles and sodas and the occasional sandwich - or your sedentary lifestyle of languishing in front of your husktop with the occasional venture outdoors, so you can't pin down a reason for this sudden weight gain. 

Finally, you chalk it up to water retention or some other arbitrary biological reason. Yeah, that must be it. Ehehe, bodies, how do they even work. 

You finish drying off and get out of the ablution block.

\-- 

After a few nights of this, you finally cotton on to the fact that, no, this might not be the typical awesomely fun roller coaster ride your brain and body habitually take you on. 

You open your eyes one evening, vision tinted cobalt by the sopor slime and head filled with fizzing static. Your migraine has gotten worse, the dull ache having escalated to a steady, pulsing throb, and you squeeze your eyes shut, open them again, slowly, as if that would do any good. Welp, no one can ever say you never gave being optimistic a shot. 

You haul yourself tiredly out of your coon and sit on its edge for a second. Your gut is even bigger than before - now it's a rotund, obviously protruding mass - and you swear you're feeling the beginnings of an ache in your digestive sac. It hurts worse when you give your abdomen a tentative prod. You are also very warm, something you'd normally attribute to the lingering temperature of the sopor if not for two other factors - one, just how _unnaturally_ warm you are, and two - you want to pail. You really, _really_ want to pail. Throughout the few moments you've spent sitting there staring bemusedly at your own body, your inner thighs are already stained with yellow, and your bulges have swollen, the tips pressing against your sheath's opening, not ready to squirm out just yet but maybe with a little more stimulation... 

You groan. You know what this is. You had a feeling a few days in, honestly, but you hadn't wanted to seriously consider the possibility. 

You slide down the top of your coon and shuffle over to your husktop, still sopor-sticky, leaving streaks of blue in your wake. Yep, you can definitely feel a heaviness in your abdomen that wasn't there yesterday. No denying it now. Fuck. 

You stand in front of your desk, boot up your husktop, look up "fertility cycles", skim through some of the symptoms. 

_God fucking damnit._


	2. Chapter 2

You rinse the remaining sopor off. On your way back from the ablution block, you grab a bag of bordering-on-stale-but-not-quite-yet gummy grubs from the very back of the nutrition closet, suddenly famished when usually the only kind of breakfast you ever have is grubjuice, if you even bother to have anything at all. Then you sit back down at your husktop and read through your findings properly in between wolfing down handfuls of candy. 

The first site you click on is emblazoned with a bright and cheerful banner that reads "Fertility cycles for dummies!" along with a photo of a smiling midblood in military garb - complete with jaunty cap - and a bunch of cartoon drones behind her. You groan and click away (though the midblood was pretty cute...) and navigate to a sparse and simple medical site instead.

 _"Begins between 5 to 7 sweeps old... once every perigee for warmbloods, though frequency may differ from troll to troll... up to a ten days' lead-up with various side effects including but not limited to aches, pains, fever, tenderness in the rumble spheres, a marked increase in sexual arousal... clutches can number between 2 to 12, but 6 is most common... remember to store your clutch in a cool, dry place until the drone assigned to your neighborhood comes to collect it..."_

You stop reading for a second and flop back in your chair - making it squeak in protest - push your shades up and rub your eyes with the heels of your hands. _God._ You remember some of this from schoolfeeding, though not much, since you probably did what you usually do in the face of uncomfortable talks about bodily functions - switched off, because who the hell wants to listen to that shit. You figured you'd just deal with it when the time came. Which is _now_ , apparently. You resist the urge to curse your past self out loud for leaving your present self so woefully under-prepared - you've picked up enough of KK's bad habits as it is without adding any more to the mix. 

You leave your shades perched on top of your (now mussed) hair and skip down to the section on the, uh, actual _laying_. The process sounds kind of painful, but whatever, you can deal with it. And it doesn't look like you need to _do_ anything except wait and make sure you're getting enough fluids and nutrients in the meantime. Apparently none of the side effects are actually harmful. Okay, so maybe this won't be that bad after all. Compared to the first time you heard the voices of the doomed this is wriggler's play. Irritating and unpleasant, but nothing you can't handle.

Now that you've got research out of the way - time to do something about this uncomfortable feverishness. Ice. Ice pressed against your head sounds like a _great_ start. Maybe you'll even shove some down your pants while you're at it. Your bulges still aren't out, but your nook has been throbbing with arousal the whole time you've been reading. The clinical, decidedly non-sexy nature of the material may have put a bit of a damper on things, since the sense of urgency from when you first woke up is gone, but there's this vague, tormenting _desire_ that's no less distracting. 

You're about to get up when your Trollian alert goes off. 

\-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] began trolling twinArmageddons [TA] \--

GA: Sollux Are You There   
GA: Youre Not Still Asleep Are You It Is Much Too Late For That   
GA: Unless You Have Not Slept At All Yet  
GA: Which Would Be A Much Less Than Ideal Occurrence 

At the sight of the jade text you feel the stirrings of what can only be described as the sappiest, most conciliatory, palest of pale feelings that ever rudely yanked on a troll's pump biscuit. You're so fucking pale for this girl, it hurts.

Which is why it isn't a good idea to respond. With the mood you're in, you might end up snapping at her for no reason, which would suck. 

...On the other hand, if you don't respond, she might think something is wrong, and you don't want to worry her. Nnnngh. Why is talking to people always so _hard_. 

\-- twinArmageddons [TA] is no longer an idle troll! -- 

TA: hey kn.  
TA: ii've been awake for a whiile, whoa 2o 2hockiing ii know.  
TA: what'2 up? 

Maybe if you keep this short you'll avoid jamming your frond nub in your squawk blister and saying something you'll regret.

GA: Nothing I Just Wanted To See How You Were Doing

You hesitate. Telling her would almost _definitely_ worry her. She might even insist on coming over. And... this Thing between you hasn't been going on for very long. It's one thing to sit in a pile and hold hands and comb her hair while she tells you all about her new flushcrush, but it's another thing altogether for you to be like " hey kn, why don't you come 2tay over and take care of me whiile ii'm all pii22y and horny and 2iick, iit'll be 2ooo much fun". And anyway, you've already established that you can get through this just fine on your own.

GA: Um  
GA: In Retrospect I Could Have Possibly Thought Of More To Say First Before Messaging You 

She's probably doing that thing where her brows furrow a little and she flushes, swipes of jade high on her cheeks, like she always does when she gets embarrassed. 

TA: no no iit'2 fiine, you're fiine.  
TA: ii'm fiine two, iinciidentally.  
TA: up to my nook iin 2hiitty a22 code, what el2e ii2 new. 

It turns out to be a pleasant enough conversation. You bitch noncommittally about work for a bit and she recounts her first few days in the brooding caverns (she'd been nervous about it, which had - of course - turned out to be totally unwarranted). 

You finally say goodbye, then give your chumproll a cursory look. Karkat's handle is greyed out, like it has been for the last few days. Threshecutioner training. He won't be logging on until it's over and he's back at his hive, luckily for you. He knows you well enough that he'd've probably figured out something was up and stormed over regardless of whatever you had to say on the matter. 

You log off, shut your husktop and carry it into your recreation block. You've got a long night of lazing on the couch in front of you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the new tags!
> 
> Also includes mentions of a canonical character death and pee.

You spend the next few nights planted on the couch, huddled under a blanket and holding a bag of ice cubes wrapped in a towel against your head. (You've gone through quite a few by now). You've been passing the time dicking around on the internet watching videos and working intermittently, but it's getting more and more difficult to ignore the solid _pressure_ in your abdomen - so much so that even migrating to your pile of wires, old motherboards and other discarded hardware doesn't give you much comfort. It doesn't help that if you don't position yourself _exactly right_ when you're sitting or laying down, you end up feeling like a rusted 2x3dent is slicing through your belly. The ache has also somehow spread so that cramps run down your thighs and lower back, as well, which is just awesome. 

Your psionics have well and truly fizzled out by now, except for sporadic, feeble bursts that happen completely randomly and unconsciously. "Snap, crackle, pop" Aradia used to call that particular phenomenon, with a giggle, while feeding you soup all those times you were laid up with a cold or flu or other harmless ailment. (Shit, why did you have to think of _Aradia_ \- of _that_ \- now of all times, when she's been little more than a distant memory to you for a sweep at least? You hate yourself. You. Hate. Yourself.)

On top of all this, the feeling of being acutely _turned on_ ambushes you when you least expect it. You fucking miss KK. Every piece of furniture in your hive taunts you with memories of being fucked on it or bent over it or shoved up against it. At first you resist writing him any emails since there's no point - he won't be able to read any of them until he gets back - but eventually you give in and send him obscene, disjointed accounts of all the filthy things you want to do to and with him upon his return. If you're going to be riled up and frustrated, he should suffer right along with you. 

Kanaya trolls you again, several times, because you don't contact her or respond to her after your last conversation. The one time you _do_ respond, you snap at her and she actually bristles back at you, telling you  It Would Be Best Not To Troll Her Again Until Youve Flushed All The Douche Out Of Your System.

You angrily get yourself off in the trap for what feels like the tenth time that night. The eggs are taking up so much space now that when you press your fingers inside yourself, you can only fit one or two in because you're too tight. You can feel the hardness of the eggshells through the membranes separating your nook from your ova sac, and it's weird, but you _need_ it, so you stroke yourself inside and out. Light caresses are enough to make you come. 

The only time you're anything akin to peaceful is when you're in your coon, floating blissfully in the viscous slime. The overwhelming warmth and the calming effects of the sopor help. So does sleeping. Towards the end of the week you spend more of your nights in the coon than anywhere else - when you're awake you just remain suspended, nightdreaming, the aches and pains melting away. The only reason you aren't spending _all_ of your time in your coon is because you need to eat and drink, obviously, and because you get bored, but also, annoyingly, because you need to pee like every five minutes. You figure it's because of the fucking eggs pressing against all of your internal organs. You've considered just peeing in the slime, but then you'd have to replace it, because you know (from experience) that piss makes sopor slime tacky and gross. Filtering out the slime and waiting for it to pour in again and sit long enough to be useable feels like too much to deal with, so the load gaper it is. 

You don't really know what to do with yourself. Your insides feel like they're ripping themselves to shreds and you've begun to think the eggs will end up pulling your digestive sac, fluid churning chamber and genetic material glands out along with them when you eventually lay them. 

The ten day mark comes and goes, and nothing happens. For the first time during this entire ordeal, you're getting a little panicky. You can't decide if you're dreading the - the _birth_ , or looking forward to all of this being over. Your pan, helpful as always, settles on an awkward compromise of anxious anticipation that has you fumbling frantically for your bucket - the aluminum, boring one that isn't used for sex and that you'd dug out of storage for the occasion - every time the muscles in your abdomen clench.

Then, finally, _finally_ , you feel the first contraction.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how to tag for it, but Sollux is incredibly weirded out and discomfited by his own bodily functions for a large portion of this.
> 
> Also includes mentions of vomit and nausea.

When it happens, you're ensconced in what's basically your new hive - your trusty couch - having spent most of your time either here or in coon over the last few days. Your gut churns, warps, executes a series of complex acrobatics in what you can only conclude is a fit of overdramatic and irrepressible fury at the rest of your body. The pain is so sudden and overwhelmingly _weird_ that you have to grip the edge of the couch hard, digging your fingers into the upholstery, your back arching. Your instincts are telling you that this is it, you can't believe you thought all those other times were it because they clearly weren't, you know that now.

As soon as the contraction is over, you shakily pull yourself up into a sitting position and reach over to retrieve the bucket that's on the ground next to you, reluctantly thanking past you for being paranoid enough to make sure it would be within your reach at all times. Getting your boxers off is a pathetic struggle, what with how shaky and weak you feel already after just that first wave of pain, but you finally manage to shimmy them down and kick them off. You arrange yourself so that your butt is right on the edge of the couch and you're slouching against the back of it, spreading your legs and putting the bucket on the ground between them. You're too sick and tired to care about what an obscene display you must make with your naked lower body and your exposed nook. If the bucket were a different colour and if you weren't totally gross, unshowered, and nearly-permanently frowning in discomfort with the fabric of your T-shirt straining around your swollen belly, you would be painting a very different picture. 

You've only just gotten yourself settled when the second contraction rolls over you. You dig your claws into the couch again and hiss in pain, but you're more prepared for it this time and take a few deep breaths. When the third wave comes you can feel the first egg leaving your egg sac and crowding into the - whatever it's called - the tube connecting your egg sac to your nook. If you look at your abdomen long enough you think you can see it moving under your T-shirt and your skin, which makes absolutely no sense, you can't _possibly_ see it, but even the imagined sight of it makes you feel a little queasy and you have to look away. It comes to an abrupt stop somewhere still deep inside you, so you clench to get it moving again, its solid, inexorable weight pushing you open. It might not be very big - you've put bigger things in your nook yourself, easily - but the shell is hard as diamonds and its pushing against soft internal organs that you've never had to use before.

In spite of how awful it feels, you almost want to cry in relief that you're finally getting the eggs out of you. 

You alternate between clenching to help the egg along and sucking in great big gulps of air. Eventually, it begins cresting at your nook's entrance and, in a fit of impulsive curiosity, you reach down and run one finger gingerly over it. Your nook is sticky with a combination of an unfamiliar viscous substance and blood, probably, and your fingers come away coated in it. 

Your stomach lurches again in disgust. Your brain flashes you a visual of you throwing up all down your shirt. You almost retch at that, but you manage to hold yourself back through sheer stubborn willpower alone. You are not going to let yourself get covered in the contents of your nutrition sac in addition to the sweat beading on your face and the fluid that's beginning to drip from your nook.

After a few more clenches, the egg slides smoothly out of you and lands at the bottom of the bucket with a loud plonk. Still panting from exertion, you crane your neck to peer down at it - it's small, yellow, and largely unremarkable. It definitely doesn't look like anything that should cause you, or any other troll, this much strife.

One down. Who knows how the fuck many more to go.

It's not long until the second one follows, as halting as the first. The breathe-and-push thing that you're doing seems to be working, so you keep at it. The third egg moves quicker, practically shooting down your eggtube - you don't care if that's not the actual word for it, that's what you're calling it - the unexpectedness of it making you gasp.

By the fourth you've gotten into a rhythm. The pain and the nausea are still _there_ , but it's consistent now, predictable, which makes it easier to manage. 

Irritatingly, this means that the uncomfortable warmth that's been slowly building in you becomes that much more noticeable. Once your bulges start to take an interest, twitching and swelling in their sheath, you can no longer deny that you're experiencing one of those wonderful arousal spikes you've been having so much lately. What perfectly convenient timing. Your body is so freaking awesome you could practically start hyperventilating from how overjoyed you are. 

This time when the egg enters your nook, your _bulges_ feel it, too - it presses against them through the thin membrane of your nook wall, almost crushing the sensitive organs, making your eyes water. It happens again with the fifth egg. It doesn't help that the constant muscle-clenching is beginning to tire you out - you're taking longer breaks between pushes, now, and the egg sits at the mouth of your nook for a good few seconds this time while you try to pull yourself together. Your bulges are already aching to be out of your sheath, so your relief is twofold when the egg finally falls into the bucket with the others and your bulges can coil out, which they do. 

And promptly try to curl into your nook. 

You're having none of that, and you grab them to hold them out of the way. The very obvious problem with this solution is that holding your bulges out of the way very quickly becomes softly running your hands over them, letting them latch on to your fingers, squeezing them gently. 

What the hell is _wrong_ with you? Why can't you just get through your shitty fertility cycle so you can get back to your shitty life _without_ weirding yourself out by getting turned on by the strangest things?

...Whatever. You don't have the energy to resist your own desires. You reach down to your nook almost resignedly and press two fingers inside yourself, minding your claws. You feel loose and raw, like someone shoved a handful of glass shards inside you, and because of how much it stings you can't help but imagine what it would feel like to be pailed like this.

You'd come close to pailing Karkat after his first time. Yeah, you were there for that. Watched the whole spectacle unfold in front of you with a front row seat. It's something he's embarrassed enough about that even _you're_ not enough of an asshole to bring it up again, not even during your black flips. It seems too much like a low blow. 

He had just finished showering when it hit. You'd rushed into the ablution chamber when you'd heard his yell, and the two of you hadn't even managed to fetch the bucket, it just happened right there in the trap. You hadn't hesitated in getting in with him - your instinct was to just keep as close to him as you could - and he'd sat between your splayed legs while you rubbed your hand over his stomach - partially in an attempt to soothe him, partially to help press them out of him - until it was over. You'd emerged from the trap with red all over you - his tears on your chest and fluids on your legs - so the both of you had to get right back into the trap after tiredly gathering the clutch into a bucket and setting it on the floor next to the load gaper. 

You'd made out under the shower with an odd kind of urgency until the water ran cold - you running your hands over him gently and Karkat pressing himself so, so closely against you, like he wanted to burrow into you. It was more pale than anything, weirdly enough, as if you needed even more quadrant vacillation bullshit in your relationship. He needed comforting and you wanted to comfort him, and at the time you hadn't been thinking about sex at _all_ , but now you're wondering what it would have been like if you if you'd coiled your bulges into his nook as he tucked himself against you.

You're lazily jerking your bulges as egg number six inches its way out of you. It still hurts, it's still gross, and when you touch the crown of the egg at your nook again you still shudder in revulsion, but the revulsion itself is almost a turn-on, now. 

Egg number six exits the building. You _have_ to be almost done, your belly is significantly flatter, it's flatter than you've seen it in days. When egg number seven arrives you soak up the feeling of it sitting in your sore nook, holding you open, sending pain pulsing through you. You strain your muscles, give one last push and it's out. It's out, and no more seem to be following. You run your hand over your deflated belly and you feel blissfully _empty_. It's the most wonderful feeling in the world.

Except... it would feel even better if you let yourself come. You want to. You groan in shame - you _really_ want to. You're still rubbing your bulges, slowly, and you just keep going, moving your other hand down to your damp, worn out nook and tracing the lips, which are puffy from arousal and soreness both. 

You come with a sigh, thinking of the look on Karkat's face as he laid his eggs while laying in your arms. The gush of fluid that pours out into the bucket to join your clutch of eggs is feebly small, but that's apparently to be expected during a cycle. You'll have to remember to wash the eggs off and wash the bucket out before putting it and the eggs away somewhere where you won't need to look at them again until the drones come. Your material can't fertilize your own eggs - they'll have to be combined with the glorious cocktail of everyone else's spooge for that. 

But that can come later. You can already feel yourself drifting off. You don't even manage to lay back down on the couch properly before you pass the hell out in exhaustion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG YOU GUYS... Also, I couldn't help thinking about Sollux waiting on the brink this entire time. Like one of my Tumblr friends said: extreme desperation.
> 
> Just an epilogue after this, and then we're done :)


End file.
